


Knit One Purl Two

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: Charles encounters a stranger on the train, one whose knitting prowess draws his attention and interest. Then the stranger meets his eyes, and Charles is pretty much a goner from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lamia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Every Me Every You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732219) by [Lamia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamia/pseuds/Lamia). 



> I've been promising Lamialee a fic for AGES and I've finally, finally gotten it down on paper. This fic is inspired by her MARVELOUS art, which you can see [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2732219/chapters/6121823). Thank you so much for all the art you've shared with me over the last couple of years, Lamia, and I hope this fic is to your liking!! You're the best <333
> 
> All thanks to pangea and black_betty for being my beta readers/cheerleaders!

Charles could not take his eyes off the man and the way he was controlling those needles.

It was hypnotizing, to say the least. Sure, he’d seen people knitting on the subway before—it was a long, boring ride for many, after all, and knitting was as good a way to pass the time as any. But to do it with such fine, precise control of telekinetic power? That was definitely a first.

He’d certainly seen a lot of mutants showing their powers off in public. Often it was an act of defiance, of retaliation even. And other times, it was nothing more than harmless mischief.

But this man and what he was doing was different. There was something about that stoic expression, that quiet focus on something so domestic among the restless fidgeting of the other commuters, that intrigued him.

Charles didn’t need his powers to tell him how uncomfortable the man was making others feel, and how little he seemed to care about it. Charles knew it was rude to stare but still…this subversive silence? He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That was when their eyes met.

For a frozen moment, Charles was too startled to look away. He was used to observing others. He wasn’t used to being observed himself. Most strangers who met eyes averted their gazes immediately, uninterested or uncomfortable with drawing attention or inviting conversation. But this man stared boldly back at him, completely unselfconscious. He had pale eyes of mutable color; at first glance they looked green, but when he turned his head and a bit of shadow fell over his face, they seemed a darker blue or gray. His gaze was unwavering, piercing. Charles had the distinct urge to shrink away, the same urge many people got when Charles looked at them. But the man wasn’t a fellow telepath. The knitting needles weaving deftly in the air, seemingly moving on their own, were testament enough to that.

The train eased to a stop at Borough Hall. A tall, bored-looking girl with a book tucked under her arm hovered impatiently by the doors. For a moment, it seemed like she was the only one getting off. Then the knitting needles folded together and slipped inside a small black tote bag at the man’s feet, along with the length of yarn he’d been working on. He got up as the doors opened and finally, _finally_ took his eyes off Charles as he stepped off the train. In the space of a few seconds, he’d disappeared.

As the train’s doors closed again, Charles let out a soft breath and gave himself a mental shake.

What an...interesting man.

 

*

 

It turned out that the man rode the 2 train into Brooklyn every Saturday morning, just as Charles did. He always sat in the same spot and spent the entire ride knitting with his powers, deftly manipulating the yarn that snaked out from his black tote bag. He worked slowly—Charles spent four Saturdays watching the man work on the same purple scarf—but his needles were always steady and, after a while, their clicking became soothing.

Charles couldn’t deny that he was desperately interested in the man. Not necessarily in a sexual or romantic way (though the stranger _was_ terribly handsome), but more in a curious sort of way. He wanted to know the man’s name. He wanted to know the man’s story. He wanted to know where the man went every Saturday, and why he chose to knit while glaring at people like he was daring them to comment, and exactly what kind of mutation allowed the man to knit so neatly and precisely without visibly moving a muscle.

“You’re a _stalker!_ ” Raven exclaimed when Charles told her about the stranger on the train. She swatted him on the arm with the lunch menu.

“I am _not_.”

Raven levelled a skeptical look at him. “Well, it kinda sounds like you want to stalk him.”

“Wanting to know more about him doesn’t mean I’m going to go around _following_ him,” Charles said with a touch of exasperation. Honestly, he thought his curiosity about his fellow train passenger was perfectly normal. The man was _interesting_ , after all. “If you saw him, you’d understand. His powers—Raven, they’re incredible. He’s got such amazing fine motor control, it’s astonishing. And the way his mind _feels_ when he’s using his powers....” Charles shook his head. “He’s so at ease with himself. It’s rare to see that, you know.”

Raven arched an eyebrow. “You read his mind?”

Stirring some sugar into his tea, Charles suppressed a sigh. “Not on purpose. You know I don’t do that. I just sensed some general impressions.”

“And now you’re swooning over him.”

“I’m not _swooning_.”

“Charles.” Raven gave him a flat look over the top of her menu. “I know what your swooning face looks like. It’s the face you’re wearing right now. Don’t give me that scowl—you know I’m right.”

Charles continued to scowl at her. “I’m never telling you about anything ever again.” Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he still _did_ tell her things. These days it only seemed to prompt teasing and comments on his nonexistent love life.

Raven rolled her eyes and went back to perusing her menu. “You’re _always_ going to tell me things because I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he grumbled, which only made her laugh.  

 

*

 

The following Saturday, the man on the train carried the Sunday crossword with him instead of his usual black tote bag. Flipping his blue pen idly between his fingers, he worked through it with the same methodical slowness with which he knitted. His mind was singularly focused on the puzzle, picking up each clue in order and mulling it over for as long as it took for an answer to surface. Most people had minds that jumped from place to place, from distraction to distraction. But this man seemed barely conscious of anything but the creased newspaper perched on his knee, the pen in his hand, and the slew of possible solutions rolling through his head.

It was a fascinating mind to observe. Rarely did Charles encounter such strict mental discipline, and whenever he did, he always had to stop and admire it. For a good twenty minutes, he sat with his eyes half-closed, brushing psionic fingers over the cool, quiet surface of the man’s mind. It was a pleasant respite from the chaotic, jumbled thoughts of the other passengers.

Distantly, he was aware of the train slowing into the Borough Hall station, aware of a pair of women sidling down the aisle toward the doors. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. It felt a little like surfacing from a pool, voices and noises turning back up to full volume, disorientingly loud after the muffled quiet of the water.

As the train slowed to a stop, Charles tugged his chair back a couple of inches in anticipation of the man getting up and moving past him. But he didn’t get up—it took a moment for Charles to realize that the man was so engrossed in his crossword that he hadn’t even noticed where they were.

Charles cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Excuse me.” After a beat of silence, he repeated, louder, “ _Excuse_ me.”

Finally, the man looked up, his brow creased in annoyance. When he saw it was Charles, his frown wavered. “Yes?”

“We’re at your stop,” Charles said politely. “Borough Hall.”

The man looked past Charles at the station through the window. Eyebrows jumping minutely in surprise, he folded the crossword in half and stood up. He was nearly through the doors when he paused and muttered, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Charles said, smiling reflexively.

That seemed to surprise the man. He stared down at Charles for another moment, much the same way he had stared down at his crossword puzzle for the whole ride from Manhattan. Charles gazed back at him, holding his breath.

The doors began to shut, and the man hopped hurriedly out onto the platform. When Charles twisted around, their eyes met again through the window, briefly.

Then the train started to pull away from the station, and the man turned and strode away. Charles stared at the long, lean line of his back until it vanished from sight.

 

*

 

Charles caught a cold a few days later, which wasn’t unexpected. He always seemed to catch a cold in mid-January, and it would linger in the form of sniffles and mild headaches for a couple of weeks. Though he didn’t skip any work, he did call in sick to the youth center. He didn’t want to inflict his cold on any of the kids there, after all.

“I hope it isn’t serious,” said N’Dare over the phone. She had her mothering tone on, the one she used on _everyone_ at the youth center, not just her daughter Ororo.

Charles sniffled as he scribbled notes in the margin of a student paper. “No, it’s just a cold. I should be back next week, hopefully.”

“Good. We can’t do without you for very long, you know. The kids would riot.”

“I know,” Charles said ruefully. He always felt bad about missing a day, but he felt especially bad now, when the center was so short-staffed. “Tell them I’m sorry and I’ll miss them.”

“Will do,” N’Dare said warmly. “Feel better, dear.”

“I will,” he promised, already reaching for the bottle of DayQuil.

He spent the rest of the week in the vaguely miserable haze of a cold that refused to be shaken off. He plowed determinedly through his classes and then spent most of the afternoon dozing on the small couch in his cramped office, even though naps seemed to do very little good about his stuffed-up nose and the headache that lurked behind his eyes. It was a wretched week.

On Friday, he woke up and didn’t immediately have to roll over and reach for the tissue box. By the end of the day, the last of the congestion had finally cleared up, and the relentless ache between his temples receded into memory. Charles could’ve wept in relief.

By Saturday morning, he felt completely well again. So come noon, he boarded the 2 train to Brooklyn and took his usual spot, endeavoring to make his chair as unobtrusive as possible. Locking his brakes, he tugged out his phone and glanced over his notifications, then skimmed a couple of emails from frantic students who didn’t know how to turn in an assignment due in less than an hour.

The train glided through a couple of stations, neither of which Charles paid any attention to. But when the doors opened a third time, Charles felt the full weight of someone’s gaze land on him and looked up, frowning.

It was the knitting man, stepping onto the train. Halfway to his usual seat, he paused for a moment when he spotted Charles. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition? Surprise?

“On or off, buddy?” growled a woman behind him.

The knitting man twisted around to glare at her, then moved to sit in his usual spot, just across from Charles. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another as the train lurched back into motion.

Then the man said, “You weren’t here last week.”

A thrill shot down Charles’s spine. So the man had noticed. “I was sick.”

That prompted a frown, those dark eyebrows drawing down over pale eyes. “Not serious, I hope.”

Charles shook his head. “Just a cold.”

“Oh.”

They lapsed into a slightly awkward silence. It occurred to Charles, after a minute, that he’d been riding the 2 train with this stranger every Saturday for nearly six weeks now, and he still didn’t know the man’s name.

“I’m Charles,” he offered.

The man looked at him for a moment, mouth pinched. He was trying to decide whether or not to respond, Charles realized. The man wasn’t used to engaging strangers on the train. He wasn’t used to engaging with anyone at all, not unless he absolutely had to.

The train slowed to a stop, and a whole gaggle of teenagers pushed between them, jostling toward the door. They chattered loudly amongst themselves as they disembarked, laughing and joking and shoving each other goodnaturedly. It took them a minute to get off the train, and by the time the doors slid shut again, Charles thought the man might use the distraction as an excuse to end the conversation. He told himself he definitely wasn’t disappointed.

But the man continued to look over at Charles and, after a moment, said,  “I’m Erik.”

A bit flattered that he’d apparently been deemed worthy of talking to, Charles beamed at him. “Erik. It’s nice to finally put a name to your face.”

Erik nodded. “Yeah.”

Charles gestured to the empty space at Erik’s feet that his tote bag usually occupied. “No knitting today?”

Erik shook his head and pulled a crossword and a pen out of his coat pocket. “Just this today.”

“Oh.”

The train rumbled through another station. When Erik bent his head over the crossword, Charles shut his mouth. Talking would be useless and unwelcome, he knew; Erik quickly submerged himself so deeply in the crossword that Charles had no hope of competing with it for attention. He contented himself with just running a light touch over Erik’s mind, enjoying the sleek, beautiful order of it. Erik really did have an incredible mind. Charles enjoyed it immensely.

Borough Hall slid into sight far too soon. Disappointed, Charles watched as Erik got up, folding his crossword in half. Instead of leaving immediately though, he stepped over to Charles and handed him the paper, his pen clipped to the edge.

“You always look kind of bored,” Erik said gruffly.

Before Charles could splutter, _“Bored?_ I think you’ve _completely_ misunderstood my expression,” Erik had turned and disappeared with the other passengers stepping out onto the platform.

Unfolding the paper, Charles found the crossword half-finished, Erik’s neat, dark letters peppering the grid. He’d also neatly crossed out the clues he’d already solved. Everything about him was neat. Charles, whose own aesthetic hovered between _charmingly messy_ and _unmitigated disaster_ , appreciated that.

The following Saturday, he settled in his usual spot and waited impatiently for Erik’s arrival. They coasted through the next two stations, people poured on and off with bursts of conversation and noise, and then finally Erik’s station pulled into view. Charles leaned up to glance out onto the platform, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was looking for someone.

From the raised eyebrow he got from Erik when their eyes met, it _was_ obvious.

“Looking for someone?” Erik asked as he stepped onto the train.

“Um,” Charles said intelligently.

Erik started to move for his usual seat, found it taken, and frowned. Turning slowly on his heel, his eyes fell on the empty space on the bench beside Charles—beside Charles!—and without ceremony, he walked over and slid into it.

Charles resisted the urge to tug at his collar, which suddenly felt warm. _You’re far too old to be acting like a blushing schoolboy with a crush,_ he told himself irritably, but that didn’t stop his heart from thumping a bit faster when Erik twisted to face him.

“Did you finish it?” Erik asked, without even saying hello.

“Yes.” Charles withdrew the crossword from inside his coat and handed it over. “Thank you.” After a moment, he fished around in his pocket again. “Here, your pen, before I forget.”

Erik accepted both, then flattened out the folded crossword to examine it. “What was 20-Down? I couldn’t...” His fingers traced the grid. “Oh. _Oswalt_. That’s stupid.”

“It’s a bad clue,” Charles said, huffing. “At first I thought it had to be _Kurosawa_ , but that was too long. Of course it _should_ be Kurosawa—she was really the first one to articulate what mutation in terms of mutantkind really meant, even though she doesn’t get _nearly_ enough credit in the history books. So ‘father of mutational research’ should actually be _‘mother_ of mutational research’ and…” He trailed off at Erik’s raised eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I ramble.”

Erik shook his head. “No, I wasn’t...Don’t be sorry.” He glanced down at the crossword again. After a moment, he said slowly, “You seem to know something about mutant history.”

“I’m a genetics professor. And…” Charles waggled his fingers at his temple. “A telepath.”

Erik’s eyes widened, but Charles could see, with a swell of relief, that there was only surprise in his expression, not fear or distrust or suspicion. “Oh. I knew you were a mutant but...I hadn’t worked out what your mutation was.”

“How did you…”

“Your pin.” Erik gestured to Charles’s bag, which Charles had slung on the back of his wheelchair. “Mutant & Proud.”

“Oh!” Charles twisted and pulled the bag around so he could run his fingers over the large blue-and-yellow pin. “My sister got it for me last year. She loves the M&P movement.”

“She’s a mutant, too?”

Charles nodded. “She’s a shapeshifter.”

Erik’s eyebrow ticked upwards. “I don’t think I’ve met a shapeshifter before. So telepathy doesn’t run in the family?”

“No, not at all. I’m the only psionic in the family tree.” Charles smiled humorlessly. “Much to my mother’s relief. And in any case, even if telepathy _did_ run in the family, Raven wouldn’t have gotten it. She’s adopted.”

“Ah.”

Charles peered at him. “What about you? Any siblings?”

Erik shook his head, idly folding the corners of the crossword in his lap. The pen hovered by his hand, suspended by the metal clip of its cap. “It’s just me.”

Charles gazed at the pen. “Your mutation. Telekinesis of some sort?”

“Magnetic field manipulation.”

Charles grinned. “That’s a mouthful.” When Erik started to frown, Charles added quickly, “It’s an incredible gift. Rare, too—I’ve met a lot of telekinetics, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who could manipulate magnetic fields. And the way you knit—your control is excellent.”

Erik straightened slightly in his seat, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His mind flushed with warm colors, obviously pleased. It took Charles a moment to realize that Erik was _preening_.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Erik said, lifting his hand. The pen floated to his palm obediently, then wove deftly through his spread fingers. “It takes mental discipline, that’s all.”

“It’s impressive, is what it is,” Charles said, just to watch that warm flicker of pride rush through Erik’s thoughts again. He wanted to touch Erik’s mind more firmly, dip his fingers into it instead of just trailing his hand over the surface. But he had rules about his telepathy, so he didn’t.

He had to suppress a sigh when Borough Hall slid into sight. It seemed like they’d barely had five minutes to talk, and there was still so much more Charles wanted to know. Wanted to ask.

“I’ll…see you next week?” he ventured.

Pocketing his pen, Erik folded up the crossword again and nodded as he rose. “I’ll be here.”

Charles smiled. When Erik smiled back, very briefly, he felt his heart leap against his chest like a startled bird.

_Oh no_ , he thought with a pang of chagrin. _Raven’s right_.

 

*

 

Charles began to put his bag on the bench beside him when he boarded, and Erik seemed to appreciate the gesture. He no longer glanced at his usual seat as he stepped onto the train—instead, the space next to Charles became his usual seat, and even though it was a tiny thing, Charles felt a little thrill of victory every time Erik slid down next to him like he owned the spot. Erik didn’t seem like the kind of man who chose to make friends with strangers very often, if ever, and yet he’d chosen to make friends with Charles. It was a very satisfying thought.

Sometimes Erik knitted and they talked. Sometimes he would work on a crossword and they didn’t speak at all. But even sitting next to him without interacting was pleasant. It was a rare thing, Charles thought, to find someone to sit comfortably in silence with. Erik made even silences pleasant.

One afternoon toward the end of February, Erik arrived carrying not only his regular tote bag but also a small, blue gift bag. Charles eyed it as Erik settled down next to him and asked, “Is it someone’s birthday?”

Erik glanced at him quizzically, then followed Charles’s gaze to the bag. “Oh this. No, this is actually…” He paused, staring down at his gloved hands. Then he lifted the gift bag by its string handles and deposited it in Charles’s lap. “It’s for you.”

Startled, Charles just stared at it for a long moment. “For me?”

“That’s generally what ‘it’s for you’ means.”

Still Charles didn’t touch it. Erik had brought him a _gift?_ That didn’t seem plausible. “What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion is, I’m tired of watching you pull up your collar and shiver,” Erik said. His tone was brusque, but his ears had reddened slightly. He was _self-conscious,_ Charles realized. It was terribly, helplessly endearing.

Pulling the gift bag closer, Charles dipped his hand into it. His fingers met soft yarn, a neat pattern. It was the purple scarf he’d watched Erik work on in those first few weeks, before they’d properly introduced themselves.

“It’s winter,” Erik continued stoically. “You should have a scarf.”

Charles _did_ have a scarf. He just constantly forgot to pull it off the peg in the hallway before leaving his apartment. But he didn’t say that. Warmth blossomed in his chest, dizzying and sweet. Erik had worried about Charles getting cold. Erik had given him a handmade scarf, one he had spent weeks meticulously putting together. It was so thoughtful Charles’s heart _ached_.

“Thank you,” he murmured, cheeks flushing hot. Taking the scarf from the bag, he wrapped it around his neck and pulled it snug. “It’s very warm.”

Erik’s mind sparked with pleasure. “Good.” His eyes lingered Charles’s now-covered neck for another moment before dropping away. “I’m glad.”

The silence that followed felt oddly...heavy. It was a silence with _potential_. What would Erik say if Charles took one of his Columbia University cards from his wallet and slipped it to him? What would Erik do if Charles asked him to call sometime?

Before he could decide whether or not to act, Erik asked, “How are the kids? The youth center?”

Charles wasn’t sure if the twisting feeling under his sternum was disappointment or relief. “Good,” he said. “Last week, the kids decided they wanted to play hide-and-seek and then we lost Trinh.”

“Trinh. The girl who can—”

“Turn invisible, yeah.”

Erik’s lips tipped up in amusement. “How did you find her?”

“Well.” Charles huffed. “It’s a long story.”

For the rest of the ride, he regaled Erik with the story of how they’d hunted through the youth center for a small, invisible nine-year-old, lost her again, and then finally pinned down her location using Charles’s telepathy. Every time Erik laughed, Charles wanted to pause to commit the sound to memory. It was delightful, making Erik laugh. It made Charles’s heart skip beats, and Charles didn’t know quite what to do with that.

Over the next week, he wore the scarf every time he left the apartment. Pulling it on conjured up the memory of Erik blushing as he’d handed the gift bag over, and that would leave Charles in a good mood for hours, if not for the whole day. It was surprisingly effective at staving off the Monday blues and the occasional slumps in the week.

“Did something happen?” Moira asked on Friday as they headed to lunch off-campus.

Charles hummed. “What do you mean?”

“You seem happy.” They paused at the curb to wait for the walk signal. “I mean, more so than usual.”

“Do I?”

Moira raised an eyebrow. “What, you win the lottery or something?”

“No.”

“You got the grant?”

“You know I won’t hear from them for at least another month.”

“Then what is it?” She stared quizzically down at him. When he grinned back up at her, her eyes widened. “ _Oh.”_

The red hand transitioned into the white walking signal. As Charles wheeled himself along the crosswalk, he said, “What?”

It took a moment for Moira to unfreeze and catch up with him. “You met someone!”

Charles’s grin widened. “Why does that sound like an accusation?”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“Um, I distinctly remember you telling me you never wanted to hear about any of my ‘conquests’ ever again.”

“That was in college!” Moira exclaims. “It’s not like you’re bar-hopping every weekend anymore, leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake.”

Charles laughed. “That’s rather dramatic, isn’t it?”

“It’s literally what happened. Anyway, that’s not even the point. The point is, _who is she?”_ Moira paused. “Or he.”

“He,” Charles said. “And it’s nothing really. He’s a friend.”

“Bullshit. You see that smile on your face?”

“I can’t see my own face,” Charles told her patiently.

Moira rolled her eyes skyward. “That _smile_ ,” she continued, in a tone that suggested she was restraining herself from going off on a tangent, probably about how _annoying_ it was when he pretended to be obtuse, “is a totally besotted smile.”

“It is _not_ ,” Charles protested. “And who says _besotted_ these days anyway?”

“You,” Moira said. “Many times, when I first met Sean, remember?”

“No,” Charles said, even though he did. He’d spent a _lot_ of time teasing her about her crush on her cute, red-haired neighbor. He sensed, suddenly, that he was about to be paid back in full.

Evidently Moira was thinking along the same lines, because she grinned sharply. “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

Charles winced.

He spent the entirety of lunch fending off her questions about Erik, trying to make it clear to her that no, they weren’t dating, and no, they hadn’t even exchanged numbers, and _no_ , he wasn’t _in love_. He and Erik hardly knew each other well enough for that, even though yes, admittedly, Erik _had_ given him this scarf, and that _had_ been the cause of his good mood all week long.

“Let me get this straight,” Moira said, stretching one of her curly fries until it broke in half. “He knitted you a scarf. He _handmade_ you a scarf. I mean, he told you he was worried about you being cold, and he gave you a scarf _that he made_. And you’re ‘just friends’?”

“I think you missed the part about how he’d already made the scarf,” Charles pointed out. “It’s not as if he made it with me in mind.”

“But he still gave it to you.”

“Yeah.”

“And he still said he was worried about you being cold.”

“Well—not in so many words but...yes, I suppose so.”

Moira snorted. “Just ask him out to dinner already.”

Charles frowned. “I’m not sure...It just seems a little premature, that’s all.”

Then again, he had to admit that he didn’t know much about the conventions of dating. Through all of his rowdy college years, which he’d spent largely alternating between series of one-night stands and steady fuck buddies, he hadn’t ever really dated anyone. Afterwards, he’d been too busy working on his PhD to commit to anything or anyone, and now as a professor, it only seemed like he had even less time. To be honest, he didn’t really know how to approach someone outside of the context of a bar and without the aid of more than a few alcoholic drinks.

Moira, who’d spent most of those college years glued to his side, knew this, of course. Still, she said, “Do you remember what you told me when I was going back and forth on whether or not to ask Sean to get coffee?”

“Yes. Do you remember how you told me that I was the last person on earth qualified to give dating advice?”

“Well,” Moira sniffed, “it was good advice. Just ask him out, okay? And if you crash and burn and he never speaks to you again, I’ll take the blame.”

“Thanks,” Charles said dryly.

He spent the evening mulling her words over, weighing the pros and cons. Pros: He would get to date Erik, obviously. He would get to spend more than a too-short train ride every Saturday with Erik. He would, hopefully, at some point, get a chance to sink more deeply into that beautiful mind of Erik’s, which he’d been tempted to do since the day they’d met.

Cons: Erik might not be interested, he’d be put off by the offer, and he’d switch seats or trains entirely and never speak to Charles again.

Don’t be dramatic, Charles told himself. That was worst case scenario. But still, even if Erik let him down gently, Charles couldn’t imagine how a rejection wouldn’t damage their budding friendship. And the last thing Charles wanted to do was jeopardize this casual companionship they’d fallen into.

By the time he boarded the train on Saturday, he still hadn’t come to a decision. If the moment seemed right, he thought. If there was an opening.

Before long, Erik arrived, looking sinfully good in a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a slim black overcoat. Charles stared at his broad shoulders for a long moment, then hurriedly averted his gaze, pretending to check his phone.

“Hi,” Erik said, picking up Charles’s bag and slinging it over the back of his wheelchair. Sitting down, he leaned back, thumping his head lightly against the wall behind him.

Charles glanced at him. “Bad day?”

“Long morning.” Erik ran his long fingers through his hair, leaving it charmingly rumpled. “My boss called at 5 a.m. and wanted my input on a new project.”

“5 a.m.?” Charles grimaced. Being awake any time before nine sounded hellish to him.

“He never sleeps,” Erik griped, crossing his arms. “He roped me in on a conference call that lasted for four hours, and it only ended because he eventually passed out. We all listened to him snore for five minutes before hanging up.”

Charles laughed. “So Tony Stark really is as eccentric as the tabloids make him seem?”

“ _Eccentric_. That’s one way to describe him.” Erik put a hand to his mouth, covering a yawn. “Anyway. I’m tired as fuck now.” He slouched down further in his seat, tucking his feet underneath him so his long legs didn’t stick too far out into the aisle. “Would you mind waking me up at my stop?”

“Uh—no. Not at all.”

Erik flashed a sharp smile at him. “Thanks.”

Then, arms crossed, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and almost immediately fell into a light doze. Charles, who could never fall asleep anywhere but in his own bed, was impressed.

Well that’s that, he thought. Clearly the universe was telling him that if something was going to happen between them, it wasn’t going to happen today. Telling himself he was only slightly disappointed, Charles took out his phone and began to scan through the news.

After a few minutes, Erik started to snore softly. Amused, Charles glanced at him, then away again. Then he realized that this was an opportunity to stare, to study Erik’s face without feeling Erik’s keen gaze returning the scrutiny. He doubted he’d get the chance again, not anytime soon anyway.

Lowering his phone, he took a full look at Erik, at his dark brows, his generous forehead, his strong nose. He was handsome, there was no denying that. No, more than that—he was _gorgeous_. Charles itched to run his hands through Erik’s auburn hair, to scratch his fingers through the red stubble that covered Erik’s square jaw. God, he was a walking wet dream.

Tugging his gaze away before that line of thought could continue, Charles redirected his attention to his phone. He put a hand in his coat pocket, running his finger along the edge of the card he’d slipped in there this morning, one of his business cards from Columbia. He imagined handing it to Erik when he woke Erik up, but no matter how many times he turned the idea over in his head, it just seemed awkward.

Damn it, he thought ruefully. If only they’d met in a bar. Words always seemed to come easily to him in a bar, with strangers.

When the train coasted into the Borough Hall station, Charles reached over and shook Erik awake with a hand on his shoulder. Evidently Erik was a very light sleeper because as soon as Charles touched him, he blinked awake, his eyes narrowed in bemusement for a moment before he realized where he was.

“We’re at your stop,” Charles said unnecessarily.

Erik looked out the window, then straightened. “Thanks.”

As Erik rose, Charles kept his hand on the card in his pocket, trying to figure out a smooth way to bring it up. But before he could say anything, a tall, heavyset man squeezed between them, forcing Charles to grab the wheels of his chair to keep himself from being jostled.

By the time the man had passed, Erik was already at the door waving goodbye.

 

*

 

Charles spent the week mulling over how to approach Erik on Saturday. He was going to do it, he’d decided. All this going back and forth on whether or not to ask Erik out was exhausting and pointless, and he didn’t have the patience for _pining_. So he turned one of his business cards over, wrote _Dinner sometime?_ on the back, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

Now all he had to do was hand it over.

But from the moment Erik stepped onto the train that following Saturday, Charles sensed something was wrong. Well, perhaps not _wrong_ , exactly, but something was off. There was a tension that clung to Erik’s mind, thick and cloying, and his dark brows were drawn low in thought. His usual tote bag was nowhere to be seen; he had both his hands tucked into the pockets of his black overcoat, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. As he slid into the seat next to Charles, he nodded a greeting.

“Everything all right?” Charles asked after a moment, too curious—and faintly worried—to stay silent.

There was a long pause. All that filled the silence was the rattling of the train over the tracks and the soft murmur of a woman having a quiet conversation with her daughter at the other end of the car. Then determination slid over Erik’s expression and he turned to face Charles.

“I don’t usually do this. Actually I don’t ever do this.” His voice was slightly rough—with nerves, Charles realized with a sharp jolt of surprise.

Erik took a long breath. Working up his courage? His heart thrumming unsteadily in his chest, Charles said softly, “But?”

“But would you like to have dinner sometime?” Erik spoke so rapidly it was almost belligerent. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he paused, then added less brusquely, “With me?”

Charles spent several seconds wondering if he’d heard correctly, or if perhaps he was dreaming. But the train was startlingly vivid and noisy for a dream, and Erik’s mind was so bright and magnetic that Charles’s subconscious couldn’t possibly have conjured it up. He could dream forms and facsimiles, but he couldn’t dream a mind like that.

As Charles continued to stare, grasping for words, Erik shoved back away from him, dark clouds gathering over his thoughts. “Don’t feel obligated to say yes,” he growled, glaring through the window in front of him. But he wasn’t angry; it was clear he was embarrassed.

“No,” Charles said hurriedly, rushing to soothe the hot red hurt that flared across Erik’s mind. “Erik, I was just—surprised. I was actually—” He fumbled with his pocket, fingers trembling with excitement. It seemed to take ages before he finally found the card, and he thrust it at Erik, hoping to forestall the thunderstorm taking shape in Erik’s head. “See?”

Warily, Erik took the card. His eyes widened when he saw the front—Charles’s contact info printed neatly there—and widened even further when he turned it over and saw the back.

“I was planning to give that to you today,” Charles said, fighting to keep his voice calm and even. The tips of his fingers were cold with nerves. “I suppose we had the same idea.”

Judging by the cold shock that rippled out from Erik’s mind, this hadn’t been anywhere near what Erik had expected. Even as he’d asked, he’d almost succeeded in convincing himself that Charles would say no. For a few frazzled moments, he simply stared at Charles, fragments of thoughts tumbling chaotically around in his head.

Then he said eloquently, “Oh. Uh...So...I guess…,” followed by a vague flopping gesture with his hand.

It was terribly endearing. Charles kind of wanted to kiss him.

“Maybe Tuesday?” he suggested. He normally spent Tuesday nights curled up on the couch drinking some spiked tea and watching whatever caught his fancy on Netflix. The rest of the week was a deluge of grading, lesson revising, student organization supervising, more grading, research, and administrative annoyances. At least on Tuesday nights, he had a few hours to himself, to breathe.

Erik nodded. “Tuesday. Yeah. That’s perfect.” His shock was fading, replaced by bright, sharp anticipation. Already his brain was whirring, working out logistics. “Where do you live? We can pick somewhere in the middle.” He cast a glance at Charles’s chair. “Somewhere convenient and accessible.”

“And kosher,” Charles added.

A slow, warm smile crept across Erik’s face. No doubt he was pleased Charles had remembered, just as Charles was pleased Erik had thought to take his chair into consideration. “And kosher.”

Both of them sighed when, a few minutes later, Borough Hall rolled into view. Erik gave Charles a reluctant look as he stood, buttoning up his coat as he did. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Charles said ruefully. “You’ll call me?”

Erik held up his card. “Tonight?”

“I’d like that.”

Smiling, Erik ducked out of the train car before the doors could slide shut. But instead of immediately heading off as he always did, he stood on the edge of the platform and gave Charles a wave. Feeling a bit like an inexperienced schoolboy who’d just been noticed by his crush for the first time, Charles waved back.

They held eyes until the train whisked them apart.

 

*

 

On Tuesday, a thunderstorm descended heavily over the city, drenching everything and everyone in sight. Charles spent the afternoon sitting in his office staring out the window at the deluge, praying it would let up in the next couple of hours.

Fortunately it did, just long enough for him to get home, change out of his damp clothes, rustle through his closet for something neat and presentable, and comb his hair. But by the time six o’clock rolled around, it had begun to storm again, lightning shattering the sky in jagged bursts.

Charles was just chewing on his lip, trying to gauge how terrible it would be to venture out into the freezing sleet, when Erik called.

“Hey,” Erik said.

“Hey yourself,” Charles replied, his heart jumping at the sound of Erik’s voice. God, he really was smitten, wasn’t he?

“It looks kind of shitty outside,” Erik said. “Are you okay to go out?”

“Well…” Charles hedged. Really, he dreaded going out in a storm like this. Wheeling about in the rain was an inconvenience usually; wheeling about in _freezing_ rain sounded like an absolute nightmare. He was planning to get a taxi, but even so, he was loath to leave the warm coziness of his apartment. Still, the last thing he wanted to do was cancel on Erik on their first date.

“That’s a no, isn’t it?” Erik guessed.

“I can meet you there,” Charles said quickly.

“We can reschedule,” Erik told him, with more than a little reluctance. “I checked the weather—it’s supposed to dry up by the end of the week.”

Disappointment surged up. End of the _week_. Even three days seemed like an eternity.

“We could do that,” Charles said. “Or…” He hesitated, wondering if it would be too forward to suggest…

“Or?” Erik prompted.

“Or you could come over,” Charles blurted out. He gripped the wheel of his chair with his free hand, steadying himself. “I could make something for dinner.” He cast a glance at his kitchen and winced. Surely he had something edible in there. “We could watch a movie.”

A horribly long second ticked by. Then another.

“Only if you wanted,” Charles added hurriedly. “I know it might seem too—too soon, maybe—”

“Sure.” Erik sounded slightly breathless. “Um, yeah. Just give me your address and I’ll come over.”

“Are you sure?” Charles glanced at his living room window, where rain was still slamming against the pane. “I hate to make you go out in a storm like this.”

“I’ll wait for it to die down a bit.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Charles,” Erik said firmly, “I want to.”

_I want to_. His words sent a slow-rolling shiver down Charles’s spine, hot and delicious. Oh god, it had been ages since he’d felt like this about anybody. Charles’s heart thrummed wildly in his chest.

“Okay. I’ll, er—text you my address then. And…” Charles shot another glance at his kitchen. “...try to make dinner. I make no promises.”

“How about I pick something up on my way?”

“I really hate to inconvenience you…”

“Charles,” Erik said dryly, “you’ve mentioned more than once that you’re a terrible cook. I wouldn’t call making sure we both don’t starve an inconvenience.”

Charles laughed. “Okay, okay, fair enough. I’ll see you soon then?”

“As soon as the rain lets up,” Erik promised.

As soon as they hung up, Charles threw his phone onto the coffee table and rushed around, tidying up the place. He didn’t usually bother with appearances because he almost never had anyone over, with the exception of Raven, who already knew about his messy habits. But now Erik was coming over and Charles’s apartment was in absolute _shambles_. Fucking _perfect_.

He rinsed the stack of dishes in the sink and stacked them in the dishwasher, hung up the various jackets and scarves he had slung around, tried to shuffle the papers and books on the coffee table into some semblance of order, and shoved miscellaneous knickknacks into his room. Then he dusted a bit, vacuumed a bit, and wiped down the counters in the kitchen.

By the time he’d finished all that, the storm had begun to dwindle into a lighter drizzle. Almost all the lightning had disappeared, and the last rumblings of thunder sounded far off. Charles checked his appearance in the hallway mirror, ran a hand through his hair a couple of times, and went to get a glass of water to give himself something to do besides wheel around restlessly in the living room.

The knock on the door made his heart leap up into his throat. It was Erik, of course—his mind was unmistakable. At the moment, a film of uncertainty floated across the surface of Erik’s thoughts, mixed with flashes of excitement. Well, Charles thought as he wheeled himself to the door, at least he wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

After giving himself one last glance in the hallway mirror, he pulled the door open.

Erik looked just as he always did on the train, except he was _here_ on Charles’s doorstep and somehow that made it seem as if Charles had never seen him before. He had to take a moment just to run his eyes over Erik, appreciate every long, lean inch of him. Erik wore his long black overcoat, which was dark at the shoulders with rain, along with slim jeans that clung to his thighs and legs, all the way down to his black boots. Evidently he’d caught some water to the face because his hair was curling slightly on his forehead, and his eyelashes were damp. In his left hand, he carried a dripping umbrella. In his right, he had a bag of takeout from Madame Wu’s.

“Hi,” Erik said. His eyes trailed from Charles’s face down to his blue dress shirt, down to his neat khaki trousers, then back up—slowly.

“Hi,” Charles said, slightly flustered from Erik’s blatant once-over. “Come in.”

As he led Erik to the living room, he could feel Erik’s attention wander around the apartment, examining the place with both his eyes and his powers. Thank god Charles had rushed around cleaning it up a bit beforehand; he was embarrassed to imagine what Erik—neat, meticulous Erik, who was always impeccably put together—would have thought of the way his apartment had looked only an hour earlier.

“I hope you didn’t get caught in too much rain,” Charles said after a moment.

Erik ran his free hand through his hair, disheveling it further. “Not too much.”

“Good.” Charles paused by the couch. “So. We can eat at the kitchen table, or we can sprawl on the couch and put on a movie.”

“The couch sounds good.”

“Great.”

“I hope you like Chinese,” Erik said as he set the bag down onto the coffee table and began to unpack boxes from it. “I got a little of everything since I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

“I love it.” Charles inhaled deeply, closing his eyes when the aroma of kung pao chicken wafted out from one of the boxes. “Oh god, I’m starving. You’re a _saint_. Or—” He frowned. “The Jewish equivalent, I suppose. Do Jewish people have saints?”

Before Erik could reply, a lanky blur of black leaped up onto his lap. The sound he let out was somewhere between a yelp and a shriek, and he jerked so hard the cat yowled and dove off his knees, disappearing behind the couch.

Charles couldn’t hold back a burst of startled laughter. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. That’s Fritz. I hope you aren’t allergic…?” There was a pause. Then Charles managed, through helpless giggles, “Can you make that noise again?”

For a moment, Erik’s face remained frozen, so stone-like that Charles wondered wildly for a second if being utterly still was Erik’s secondary mutation. Then Erik let out a wheezing breath and said, “ _Fuck_ , that scared me.”

Charles laughed again. When Erik glared petulantly at him, Charles shook his head and said, “I’m sorry. I just—the _sound_ you made.”

Erik snorted. Then he made another quiet sound, and after a moment, Charles realized he was trying to stifle a rueful smile. There was something delightfully charming about Erik trying to smother a smile.

The cat crept back. Erik bent down and held out a hand. “Come here, you. What’s his name again?”

“Fritz.”

“Come here, Fritz.” Erik clicked his tongue, but Fritz came around the coffee table to rub up against the wheel of Charles’s chair instead. “Asshole,” Erik muttered. Glancing quickly at Charles, he added, “Sorry.”

“No.” Grinning, Charles reached down to stroke his knuckles down Fritz’s spine. “He _is_ an asshole. But he grows on you.”

“Well,” Erik said, fishing a bundle of chopsticks out of the bag, “I’m hungry. You?”

“Starving.”

“Then dig in.”

Charles transferred over to the couch next to Erik and cycled through TV channels while Erik opened up all the boxes. After passing over a few possibilities (the news tonight was deemed too depressing; _House Hunters_ too bland; and _CSI: Dallas_ too inaccurate), they finally settled on a replay of the Leicester-Arsenal match from last Saturday. Erik didn’t know too much about football, but at least he agreed that it was worlds better than American football.

“Where did you learn to knit?” Charles asked as Erik deftly scooped orange chicken from its box. He wielded his chopsticks with as much ease and confidence as he did his knitting needles.

“From books, mostly. Lately I’ve picked up some new ideas from YouTube.” Erik settled back against the couch. As he did, his knee brushed Charles’s, and though Charles couldn’t quite feel the contact, he still felt a quiet thrill in his spine. “When I was younger, I had a lot of trouble controlling my mutation.”

“Most young mutants do.”

“I know. They didn’t have youth centers back when we were growing up though.”

“I know,” Charles murmured, remembering all those years he’d spent figuring out his mutation on his own. His father had sent him to mutation management classes, the private ones that you had to pay for, but they’d been largely useless for a young, newly-manifested telepath who, at age six, was already registering at an 8 on the Capall scale.

“We couldn’t afford mutation management,” Erik continued, “and from what I hear, those classes were shit anyway. Run by humans to suit human agendas.”

“They meant well.”

Erik rolled his eyes. He always did whenever he felt like Charles was being too generous with humans, too trusting. The first few times he’d done it on the train, glancing skyward like he couldn’t quite believe how naive Charles was, Charles had been annoyed. Now, the gesture seemed mostly just fond.

“What they _meant_ doesn’t matter. What they _did_ is what matters.”

“Let’s not debate the merits of the old MM system,” Charles said wryly. “Otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

There was a miniscule pause. Then Erik said, casually, “I’m not opposed to being here all night.”

They looked at each other. The air between them felt suddenly heavy, and Charles was aware that the moment had taken a sharp turn away from friendly camaraderie toward something... _more_. His heart lunged in his chest.

“Too forward?” Erik said, finally.

Charles released the breath that had been building in his chest for what felt like years. “No.”

For a moment, Erik seemed at a loss for words. Charles could tell that he wasn’t used to being here—past the point of meaningless flirtation, on the cusp of something decidedly realer. In the background, the referee’s whistle blew shrilly. Charles hardly heard it over the excitement buzzing in his ears.

“Can I...can I touch you?” Erik asked, his entire body tensed with anticipation.

At the moment, Charles literally couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. “Yes.”

Erik leaned forward and set his plate down on the edge of the coffee table. Then he put a hand on Charles’s knee. “Can you feel this?”

Charles’s spinal injury was incomplete, not enough to sever all sensation but enough to dim most of it. He concentrated on Erik’s hand now, mesmerized by how those long, elegant fingers wrapped around his leg. “Not really. Faintly. It’s more pressure than anything else.”

Slowly, Erik ran his hand up Charles’s thigh. It was a painfully erotic sight, even if Charles couldn’t feel it. “How about this?”

Charles shook his head. “Honestly, you’d have better luck going above the waist.”

“Hmm.” Erik’s eyes flicked up to Charles’s face, and Charles glimpsed enough of his intent to tilt his head so that their mouths would meet more directly when Erik leaned in.

Three thoughts shot through Charles’s mind simultaneously.

One: Erik tasted overwhelmingly like noodles and orange chicken.

Two: Erik’s lips were very warm and very amenable to being teased open with Charles’s tongue.

Three: Erik enjoyed his Chinese food _much_ spicier than Charles did his.

The absolute last thing in the world Charles wanted to do was pull away, but he had to after a minute, his eyes watering. When Erik saw his expression, his own eyes shot open wide. “Charles?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, torn between embarrassment and laughter. “Your mouth just tastes a _lot_ of hot sauce, and I’m terribly intolerant to anything even remotely spicy.”

Erik simply stared at him for a moment. Then he began to laugh, a big, full-body laugh that came from his belly and traveled up and up and up. He bent over, laughing, and Charles couldn’t be embarrassed because it _was_ rather funny, and he started to laugh, too.

“I’ve been called hot before,” Erik wheezed, “but never _spicy_.”

“Well, I’ve kissed hot people before,” Charles shot back, “but I’ve never kissed anyone who literally set my mouth on fire.” He pressed the back of his hand against his damp eye. “Christ.”

Still laughing, Erik leaped up. “Here, I’ll get you some water.”

“Wait—” Charles said, because he was the host here and Erik was the guest, but Erik had already disappeared into the kitchen. There was a bit of banging around and opening and closing of cabinets, and then Erik returned with a mug with a bright red fox on it, filled with water. Charles gratefully guzzled it all down, slumping in relief as the burning in his mouth gradually subsided.

“That was, without a doubt, the most fiery kiss I’ve ever had,” he joked, once his eyes had stopped watering. Leaning forward, he set the mug on the coffee table, next to his dog-eared copy of _The Name of the Wind._ “Really, I think you should get a commendation for that.”

“I’m glad I distinguished myself,” Erik said wryly. He sat back down and, after a moment, scooted closer. The sight of their thighs pressed together sent a shiver coursing down Charles’s arms. “Did that completely kill the mood?”

“Mmm…” Charles traced his eyes over Erik’s face, over the furrow of his brows down to his hopeful eyes, then down further to his half-open mouth. He was sort of _begging_ to be kissed, really, and Charles wasn’t about to disappoint. “Not completely, I think.”

Erik broke into a grin. When Charles pushed him down and climbed on top of him, his grin only widened.

 

*

 

THREE MONTHS LATER

 

The train was particularly crowded this morning. Crowds of people bustled on and off, carrying on conversations, arguing on the phone, blasting music on their iPods, laughing at some inside joke, slurping coffee. Erik almost wished they’d taken a cab instead; beside him, Charles was already tense, and the din seemed to only be making it worse. At least a cab would’ve been quiet.

“I’m fine,” Charles murmured. He was leaning over to look at the crossword laid open in Erik’s lap. “Actually, the noise is nice. It’s part of the reason I like riding the subway, you know. It helps me get out of my head.” He laid a finger on the grid. “39-Down. _Faraday._ ”

Erik jotted down the letters. “Don’t be worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You’ve been worrying all morning.”

Charles sighed, picking at the tassels of the blanket on his lap. Erik had given it to him just last month, and already there was a slight fray on one edge. Erik made a note of it so he could fix it later, adding it to the list of his current knitting projects.

“This is new to me, that’s all,” Charles said finally. “Meeting the parents. The parent. Your mother.”

“My mother is the _least_ frightening person on this planet.” Erik paused to marvel at how absolutely _untrue_ that statement had been, then amended, “All right, that’s a lie, but she’s going to love you, I promise.”

“Oh well.” Charles smiled. “If you _promise_.”

Erik reached over and took his hand. Lacing their fingers together, he said, “It’s going to be fine. It honestly can’t be worse than me meeting your sister.”

Charles winced. “I _told_ you you should have let me come with you.”

“Your sister asked me to lunch, _alone_. What was I supposed to say, no?”

“You could have let me intervene, but no, you wanted to prove yourself.” Charles ran his thumb along Erik’s knuckles, smiling. “I told you she was going to eat you alive.”

Erik groaned. “She did, and then she spat me back out.”

“And then she said she liked you,” Charles added. “She approves.”

“Well thank god for that,” Erik huffed, rolling his eyes, which earned him a sweet, bright laugh from Charles.

They continued working on the crossword as the train trundled on, metal rattling pleasantly to Erik’s senses. For most of his life, crossword puzzles had been a solitary activity, a way both to pass time and to destress. But over the last three months, he’d gotten used to having Charles read over his shoulder, giving suggestions, pointing out answers that Erik hadn’t even considered. He’d gotten used to quite a few other things as well—waking up to Charles nestled in his arms, sharing counter space in the bathroom, rearranging furniture around in his apartment to accommodate Charles’s wheelchair, making dinner for two, being able to steal kisses whenever he felt like it. Things were different. Unquestionably better.

_I think so, too_ , Charles said, squeezing his hand. Fondness flowed across their mental connection, like warm honey. Erik could almost taste the sweetness on his tongue.

When Borough Hall slid into view, Charles pulled his hand back and took a deep breath as he tugged on his gloves. Erik tucked the crossword into his bag and stood up.

It was a short walk from the station to his mother’s place, barely even five minutes. The wind nipped at Erik’s nose and fingers, chilly and bracing. Charles had his purple scarf tugged up snugly to his chin, and the gray hat Erik had knitted him last week pulled down over his ears. When they stopped at the stoplight at the end of the street, Erik couldn’t restrain the urge to reach down and run his gloved finger over Charles’s cheek. Charles nuzzled him back, smiling.

His mother’s house was small, charming, and, thankfully, wheelchair accessible. They went up to the front door and stopped at the doormat, which read HEY GOOD LOOKIN’. Charles smiled at it, then straightened his shoulders.

“Ready?” Erik asked, raising his fist to knock.

Charles swallowed, then took a deep breath, then looked up at him. “Come here for a second?”

When Erik turned to face him, Charles took both ends of Erik’s long, magenta scarf and reeled him in. Bending over obediently, Erik closed his eyes as their lips met, a firm, affectionate, lingering touch. Charles’s nose was cold against his, but his mouth was warm, almost hot. Erik slid one hand around the back of Charles’s neck and tried to push _confidence_ at Charles, _reassurance._

When they broke apart finally, Charles was smiling, his eyes bright. “Now I’m ready,” he said.

Erik smiled, too, and held out his hand. Charles took it, threading their fingers together.

With his free hand, Erik knocked. Not even two seconds later, he felt his mother—felt her bracelets, more precisely—moving toward them, her pace quick and eager. When the door swung open, she was grinning luminously.

“Mama.” Erik paused to take a full breath. Now that the moment had arrived, his stomach jumped with nerves. “This is my boyfriend, Charles.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lehnsherr.” Charles gave her one of his winning smiles, and Erik watched his mother fall in love with Charles instantly, just like that. As he’d hoped she would.

“Come in, come in.” She waved insistently at them. “You’re just in time for lunch. Charles, please, make yourself at home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, just call me Edie. None of that ma’am nonsense.”

Grinning, Charles dipped his head in acquiescence and wheeled himself down the entrance hallway toward the living room. As Erik unwound his scarf, his mother regarded him closely. “You look happy.”

Was it that obvious? Well, it had to be. These days, Erik felt like happiness poured visibly off him, uncontainable and irresistible. He’d never felt like this before in his life.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “I am.”

She squeezed his arm. “Good. Now let’s go make sure Charles is getting settled in.”

“Yes.” Erik looped his arm through his mother’s and patted her hand. Sharing a quiet Saturday with both of his favorite people under the same roof? He didn’t think it was possible to be more content than this. “Let’s.”

 


End file.
